


Better Bad Ideas

by Alliliswips (ilien)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical swearing, Child Neglect, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Family Angst, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Multi, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Voyeurism, eventual OT3, eventual unrequited Jaskier/Geralt, mentions of Yennefer/Geralt, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:48:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27134809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilien/pseuds/Alliliswips
Summary: Jaskier and Yennefer lie themselves into a marriage. It's all fake. Really.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, eventual Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer - Relationship
Comments: 6
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm posting this WIP as part of my personal "post all the WIPs" campaign. It's not even halfway finished so far, and there's fear I might never get to the end of this. Or I might. No one knows. I know how this ends, though, so at least it will have an ending.
> 
> I treated the books/games canon very, very loosely here; basically just snatched some names, places and titles. I might have changed some aspects of the movie canon for the sake of this fic, too, but I did my best to avoid that as much as possible for as long as I could.
> 
> See end notes for details on tags and endgame ships.

This was a bad idea. Bad, very bad, but not a disastrous one — one of his better bad ideas. 

The thing is, King Audoen’s court needed a bard for this celebration of prince Niedamir’s coming of age. What kind of coming of age is it even, without a bard? Court musicians are bloody boring, everybody knows that, and the prince made it very clear that he hates them. 

But the king is bloody paranoid, in his endless wisdom. He knows his neighbors, subjects and friends way too well to not be, of course, so it makes perfect sense that he would never tolerate a simple bard anywhere near his son and heir on any day, let alone on this glorious celebration. 

Cue, Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, the king’s own (almost) nephew and the prince’s second cousin; close enough to the court to not be killed on sight when he approached the king with his offer, and good enough a bard to get the actual job, along with a promise of a very handsome payment. Enough to last him to the end of the winter and maybe even halfway into spring, if he’s careful.

Jaskier looks around the room to assess the danger. Neither his father nor his brother have been invited, and he’s been really, really trying to stay away from the vicinity of his place of birth, and therefore managed to acquire only a couple of ill-wishers here. Three jealous husbands — to be fair, two of them are husbands of the same woman, but the ex is somehow more mad at Jaskier than at the actual second spouse; one wife — he didn’t even know the man was married; a son — why the hell does a son think it's his place to defend his father's honor, is beyond Jaskier; and an especially crazy twin sister who's mostly upset with not being invited — a shame, that; Jaskier had no idea there were two of them and now she acts like it was his fault. 

So, bad idea, but not a disastrous one, by far. He picks up his lute, has a brief talk with the court musicians — evidently, they’re as bored with their usual repertoire as the prince himself — and starts singing. Not all the guests are in, yet, so Jaskier starts with his less impressive works, leaving the best and even second-best for last. Prince Niedamir seems to enjoy it, all the same, and the King, who, no doubt, would not be as impressed with Jaskier’s pre-Geralt works, has yet to arrive. 

They’re an oddly good audience, the prince and his early guests. They clap in all the right places, cheer at the saucier jokes and seem to really enjoy themselves; the absence of the King and the fact that a lot of the guests are teenage boys probably has quite a bit to do with it; Jaskier did write most of those songs when he was a teenage boy himself. He’s just beginning to think coming here was, in fact, one of his better ideas, after all, when—

The King finally arrives, looking stately in his royal outfit, but for a second there he looks downright furious. The second passes, and the king puts on a formal welcoming expression, quite appropriate for the occasion. Jaskier thinks he can hear the combined sigh of relief that means he wasn’t the only one to notice the king’s initial foul expression. He is, however, probably the only one to suspect the cause, because right there, one step behind the king, accompanied by one of the king’s younger knights, is no other than Yennefer of fucking Vengerberg, in the flesh. 

Her presence alone is crime enough; Jaskier knows for a fact that not a single commoner or outsider has ever been invited to the court, scary witch or not. Showing up on such a glorious day, uninvited— the crazy witch is lucky her head is still intact. He wonders how she’s going to get out of this mess; he’d bet his day’s coin that come morning, the king will no longer feel the need to honor his son’s coming of age celebration with, you know, no chopped heads. 

The king gives an impressively long speech and only when some of the youngest guests begin to doze off, finishes it and gestures to the servants to serve the main course, and then to Jaskier to start singing — that’s when Yennefer glances in his direction and, judging by a very subtle change in her expression, recognises him. Jaskier offers her a brief mocking bow. If she’s surprised, she doesn’t show it, but her gaze lingers just a second too long. The king seems to notice their silent exchange, but, of course, offers no commentary.

Jaskier starts singing. Although now he’s moving on to his better works, the audience doesn’t seem half as cheerful with the King present. The King himself seems pleased, though, so Jaskier chooses to take that for encouragement and doubles his efforts, while doing his best to keep at least half of the enormous room between himself and the crazy witch at all times, just in case. If at times it proves a hard job to keep away from both Yennefer and his lovers’ enraged relatives, he reckons the witch is more threatening.

By the end of the day, the insane twin sister is making eyes at him. He isn’t about to get into that mess again, so he smiles at her nicely, winks a few times, but doesn’t follow through. The angry son is dancing with a pretty girl, not looking angry anymore, and none of the husbands is even in sight. The witch eats, smiles and talks to the prince, presenting no immediate danger. He might survive this day with his limbs attached, after all, if he makes the run for it in time. He’s to be paid tomorrow, and his inn is on the other side of the city, so he should probably hurry out, anyway.

He sings the most well-received songs a few more times and then bows out, thanking the king, the prince, the audience (they were, in fact, a good audience, after all) and then the musicians — the poor guys are here to stay until the last guest — packs up his instrument, snatches something that looks edible off one of the huge tables out of the king’s sight and makes a beeline to the back exit. 

He’s barely out of the door when he feels a disturbingly familiar sensation of a sword at his neck. 

“Slowly close the door, take two steps to the left and kneel, and I won’t cut your throat right here,” a voice says. Jaskier’s pretty sure no one could be stupid enough to cut anyone’s throat right at the door of the royal ballroom in the middle of the prince’s celebration, but better safe than sorry; he does as he’s told. The sword doesn’t go away. Jaskier looks up and sees both of the two husbands of that lovely lady whose name he doesn’t even remember. The ex-husband is the one holding the sword, but the new spouse has a sword out, too.

“Oh, it’s great to see you, guys, I’m so happy the two of you are getting along, happy families are so hard to find these days!”

“Families! He’s talking to us about families!” The ex yells, and Jaskier feels the sword cut into his throat, just a little. His instincts demand for him to scream, ‘Geralt!’, only that would be pretty useless right now. 

“We really, really hoped to never see you again, bard,” the new husband says. “You swore you’d never come close to Catherine again.”

“I did! I wouldn’t! I swear, I’m not here for her!”

“That’s what you said last time,” the ex says. “And then he caught you in her boudoir!”

“It’s true this time,” he tries helplessly. 

“We. Do not. Believe you,” says the new husband. “Evidently, the only way to keep you away from our wife is to cut your throat.”

“Listen, can we talk? Just put down our swords and talk like grown-ups?” He thinks he hears footsteps, so he talks louder in hopes of being heard. “I’m not after your — your, plural, evidently, that explains so much — wife, I’m just here to sing, I swear!”

“You won’t trick us this time,” the not-really-ex says.

“What’s happening here?” he hears, and both husbands look up, startled. 

If someone told him not ten minutes ago he’d be fucking overjoyed to see Yennefer of Vengerberg, he’d laugh in their face. 

“This is a private matter, my lady, please, do not concern yourself,” the new husband says.

“Private matter? You hold my husband at swordpoint on his knees and tell me it’s a private matter?” She looks so genuinely furious that he almost believes her himself and wonders if he married her in her sleep or something.

“Husband? You asshole got married?”

There’s no option but to play along, so he breathes out a strangled, “Yes,” and the sword is suddenly not touching him anymore.

“We apologize, my lady,” the not-ex says sheathing his sword. “We did not believe him when he said he wasn’t here for our wife, but if you’re at his side, he’s probably truthful, for once.”

The door to the ballroom squeaks quietly, but none of them pay attention as the two husbands watch Yennefer help Jaskier off the floor and then heal the shallow wound on his neck with a brief, but gentle gesture.

“Keep an eye on your husband, my lady, lest you want to find him in another lady’s bed, or in the gutter with his throat cut,” the new husband spits, but puts his sword away.

“I’m sure he will not be unfaithful to me,” Yennefer says, and gives Jaskier a look that, were he actually an about-to-be unfaithful spouse of hers, would kill him in place.

The two men turn to walk out but stop in their place, startled: the half-opened door opens and reveals none else but King Audoen himself, accompanied by his manservant. The terrified husbands bow to the king, but he waves at them dismissively and watches as they all but run away with light amusement. When they’re out of sight, the king turns to Jaskier.

“The court was not informed of your marital status,” he says. Oh, fuck. “By unfortunate accident, Viscount, We’re sure.” He looks at him expectantly.

“Please forgive us, your majesty.” Yennefer bows and Jaskier chokes on his ill-advised protest. “I was getting ahead of myself. We aren’t yet wed, but we will be soon.”

“Oh, I see. A winter wedding? How romantic, oh, young love! I hope these two didn’t inconvenience you too much; they’re sometimes a tad overprotective of their lady and see threat where there’s none.”

Julian manages something between a nod and a bow, not daring to breathe; this tone can mean just about anything from ‘I’m genuinely sorry for my stupid subjects’ to ‘I’m mocking you before I order your head chopped off.’

“And please forget this morning’s talk, Viscountess,” the king continues, “it was a terrible misunderstanding; my people failed to report your betrothal, and Julian neglected to mention it.” Jaskier lets the breath out. If the king is using his given name, the danger of being beheaded on the spot has passed. “Of course as a member of the Count’s family you are perfectly entitled to request the position,” the king says to Yennefer, “and as it is, indeed, vacant, it will certainly be granted to you immediately after the wedding; you are, no doubt, the best candidate. I’ll double the wages you requested. Please, consider it one of your wedding gifts. We’re expecting you at Our side come spring. Julian, Viscountess.”

Jaskier barely manages to choke out a stunned, “Thank you, Uncle,” and Yennefer doesn’t look even a tiny bit out of her element as she gracefully thanks the king for his generosity. 

King Audoen motions to his manservant and leaves with a broad smile. 

“Uncle?” Yennefer whispers when the king is out of sight.

“Wedding?” Jaskier demands a little louder.

“Come,” she orders. “I think you’re done with singing for the day.” He is, but he has so many, sooo many objections to coming with her. She retreats without expecting an answer and he has to run to catch up.

As he follows her up the stairs and down the hall — evidently, she was somehow granted quarters here, a favour he was never offered — he truly considers running away. He didn’t sign up for this, whatever this is. Whatever Yennefer said to the king, whatever the king promised her; it has nothing to do with him. She saved his life again, fine, he’s very, very grateful, but that doesn’t mean he owes her — whatever she’s going to ask of him, now; he has a pretty good idea what it is. He’s out, thank you very much.

Then he thinks of Geralt and how mad he will be if he finds out his crazy witch of a love life was executed for lying to the king’s face, and Jaskier was there and did nothing to prevent that. 

Then he thinks of Geralt finding out that Jaskier helped Yennefer lie to the king that they’re married, of all things. His motion to run is abruptly ceased by Yennefer's strong grip on his shoulder. With her other hand she opens the door, and then shoves him inside. 

He enjoys being manhandled by beautiful women, he does. Just— not by this woman, thank you very much.

“What the fuck, witch,” he shouts as soon as she lets go of him and closes the door, “what the fuck, do you know what they’ll do to you here, for lying to the king?”

“Well, for that they have to, one, uncover the lie, and two, overpower me. You, however, are just one step away from execution now.”

“They won’t execute me,” he says. “My father wouldn’t let them. They’ll just cut off my tongue and lock me in the dungeon.” He’d rather be executed, of course.

“That’s all right, then, I’ll go tell them,” Yennefer says and makes a motion to leave. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” he knows she can’t be serious but still panics, “can we talk about it? Find an alternative solution?”

“Oh, definitely.” With the smile she looks like a very scary cat looking at a delicious little mouse. “Now, tell me. You calling the king ‘uncle’ isn’t the result of a shared sexual exploit, is it?”

“The result of—” he chokes at the mental image. “No. No-no-no, no! He’s my father’s cousin, on my grandmother’s side.”

“That rather explains your presence here.”

“Speaking of, what how the fuck did you get here, today of all days? Don’t you know they love executing outsiders?”

“Yes, I was advised on the matter. This morning, right after I approached the King before the feast. Nasty lot, they are.”

“Oh, come on, that man’s related to my brother and still alive. It’s perfectly justified. How come you’re still breathing, anyway? Not that I’m not happy about it, it’s just that I’m—not.”

“Apparently they forgot to ask for your council, and hence pardoned me on the occasion of the celebration. The prince seemed to enjoy my company.”

“He’s sixteen, of course he did; I reckon you wouldn't even have to cast any foul spells.”

“Your uncle’s court is surprisingly well warded.” 

“Why did you come here, in the first place? Ran out of heart-broken elves and decided to downgrade to princes?”

“I’m sure Chireadan will be pleased to hear that you see him as an upgrade from a prince. But no. I heard the position of a court magician was vacant and came to offer my services.”

Jaskier laughs. “THAT was bound to go well!”

She shrugs, gracefully. “Doesn’t hurt to try.”

“It very well fucking does,” he objects, “you ended up almost executed, and then lying. To the king. That you’re my fiance!”

“Yes, I should have let the angry men kill you, that would have been a better outcome.” 

“Yes, you saved my life, again, I’ve already thanked you!”

“Did you? I don’t recall. As a matter of fact, I do not recall any gratitude the first time, either.”

“That time, Geralt did all the thanking. I’m sure he thanked you very thoroughly, several times over.”

“You don’t have to put in as much effort,” she says, unfazed. “A simple thank you would suffice.”

“Oh, thank gods for that! Thank you, crazy witch, for saving my life again, please let’s stop meeting like this. Actually, let’s stop meeting at all, thank you very much, I’ve seen more than enough of you for my very short lifetime and—”

A knock on the door interrupts his monologue. Yennefer lifts the ward and opens the door, to see a pair of king’s own servants wearing full-dress liveries. 

“A modest gift from our master King Audoen for your betrothal, lady Yennefer, Viscount!” one of them says, and the other is carrying a rather sizable jewelry box on a gold tray. At Yennefer's motion, they enter the room and deposit the gift on the table. “The King wishes you happiness and offers his court’s assistance in arranging the ceremony. Your father the Count is to expect the King’s people by the end of the month.”

“There’s really no—” Yennefer starts, but Jaskier kicks her in the shin.

“My father will be as grateful for the king’s generosity as we are. Please convey our gratitude; dear uncle has always been so thoughtful.”

The servants leave, and Jaskier slides to the floor with his back to the door, his head in his hands.

“You don’t say ‘no’ to an offer like that, my love, the king’s generosity is not to be denied,” he says as calmly as he can manage. Getting up and ceasing to panic is out of the question.

“My love?” Yennefer looks puzzled and—amused. Definitely amused. 

He points at the box and then at his ear. Whatever’s in the box, or even the box itself, definitely provides the king or one of his advisors with a feed of everything that’s said in its vicinity. She gasps, very quietly, and makes a subtle motion towards the table — probably a spell, and then nods with a rude non-magical gesture in the same direction.

“My love, you’re scaring me, are you okay?” She asks in the sweetest voice; a perfect simulation of a worried lover. 

“I’m—” he chokes. He’s panicking. Definitely paniching. Very, very seriously panicking. “I’m just overwhelmed with Uncle’s kindness, sweetheart.” He sobs and hopes whoever’s listening will believe he’s just that moved. “I haven’t seen him for years, and he’s still so loving and generous to me!”

“You are, indeed, very lucky to have such a relative, and twice as lucky to have him for a king!” she says. Her eyes are laughing. 

He wants to scream that there’s absolutely nothing to laugh about.

_‘Oh, come on,’_ he hears in his head, ‘ _you have to admit it’s a little bit funny.’_

Now she’s in his head, too. Marvelous. He shakes his head, _no._

_‘Don’t sit on the floor, get up here and let’s think of our options,’_ she says in his head. Out loud, she says, “Shall we take a look at the king’s gifts, my love? I’m anxious to find what’s inside!”

He lets her help him to his feet, for the second time in one day; she’s surprisingly (or maybe not surprisingly at all) strong. As he dusts off his trousers — never hurts to look his best — she opens the chest and takes out a beautiful necklace made of white gold with sapphires. 

“Oh, would you look at that!” she exclaims, perfectly imitating an excited fifteen-year-old, “It’s the same color as your eyes, my love! I’ll wear it for the wedding!” 

He does his best to think, _‘Overdoing it!’_ in her direction. Either it doesn’t work or she simply ignores him, there’s no telling. 

She puts the necklace carefully down on the table to the right of her and glances back into the chest. “Look, there’s a brooch to match! It will look so good on you!” She deposits the brooch right next to the necklace. They’re very evidently made to match and to be worn by a very rich and very vain couple. He sort of misses wearing nice things like this one, but on the road he might as well put on a ‘rob me now’ sign above his head.

_‘Is there anything that would make a wedding impossible?’_ he hears in his head. “Look, there’s more!” She says aloud; if she sounded any more excited she’d be a toddler, “Rings! So many of them!”

_‘Other than the fact that you and I, married, is, like, the worst nightmare in the universe, for both of us?’_ He thinks, loudly. This time, judging from the smirk, she definitely heard him. 

_‘Other than that, yes. Are you married? Engaged? Vowed to never marry?’_ She takes the rings out of the chest, one by one — there really are quite a few — and puts three of them next to the necklace, and the rest to her left.

_‘Is it too late to vow to never marry? Or, I don’t know, to vow to never marry insane women, in particular?’_ He asks.

She reaches into the chest and takes out a sapphire bracelet. _‘I’m afraid it is. And if you did actually turn out to be married or engaged, that would be very bad news.’_

_‘Wait, are you actually saying what I think you’re saying? That getting through with the fake marriage is the preferable outcome?’_

“This bracelet will go beautifully with the necklace,” she says, but puts the bracelet to her left. “And oh, look!” She takes out a small mirror in a precious golden frame. _‘To me, certainly. I want this job much more than I want to lose my head. For you — up to you, of course. If you prefer losing your tongue and getting locked up...’_ she says in his head as she puts the mirror, glass down, to her right next to the necklace.

“Finally, a mirror worthy to reflect your beauty, my sweetest flower,” he chokes out. _‘This is insane, even for you. Can’t you, I don’t know, bewitch the king? Get yourself a job and me a way out of this mess. You can have an orgy with the entire court, for all I care, just keep me out of it.’_

She kisses the air, loudly. “You’re so sweet to me!” 

_‘Still overdoing it,’_ he thinks as loudly as he can. She ignores it again. 

_‘Wards, bard. This king’s mind is very thoroughly warded; if there were a way around it we wouldn’t be here now,’_ she says.

They glance inside the box and it appears to be empty. Yennefer points at the pile of jewelry to her right, and then to her ear. Then she points at the mirror, and, to his terror, to her eyes. He really, really hoped the king only wanted to listen.

She picks up the mirror and leans in to kiss his cheek so that the mirror would catch her doing it. “I’m so happy!” she says. He’s nothing if not a performer, so he beams and returns the kiss, very careful to avoid her lips. She puts the mirror back into the chest and starts putting away the rest of the gifts.

_‘Is your uncle that paranoid or that perverted?’_ she asks silently.

_‘Both, I guess, but more paranoid. He very sensibly doesn’t trust you, but he probably doesn’t trust me, either.’_

“Don’t you want to wear them?” he asks. She really should. They’re Royal gifts, you don’t just dispose of them. _‘Why do you want this job so badly?’_ he asks

“Of course I do,” she says and picks out a couple of non-enchanted rings. “But I’ll keep the best ones for the wedding. These are beautiful, as well. Oh, look, these two are a pair, try this one on!” _‘That’s entirely irrelevant now. What’s relevant is that even if I didn’t want the job there still wouldn’t be a way out.’_

He puts the ring on his right hand. It’s a nice ring; had he gotten it as Jaskier the bard he’d sell it and spend the entire year only singing for his own amusement, never for food and shelter. Viscount de Lettenhove, however, isn’t supposed to sell Royal gifts. _‘Can’t you just, I don’t know, open a portal and make a run for it?’_ he asks, helplessly.

_‘Wards,’_ she says. Then she picks up the matching ring and puts it on her own middle finger. 

They’re both very thoroughly fucked.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware, the tags! Jaskier's family aren't all very nice.

Royal bloody gifts don’t stop with the spying jewelry. Later that night the king’s servants come back and inform them that Jaskier’s quarters are ready. So, evidently, playing for the prince isn’t a room-worthy deed, and getting fake-engaged to a crazy witch is. He follows the servants to a luxurious apartment in another wing of the castle and settles on the enormous bed. His exhaustion seems to overpower his anxiety, so he falls asleep, mid-thought.

In the morning Jaskier wakes to the sound of someone banging on the door, quite loudly. For a very brief second he thinks he’s in yet another inn and it’s Geralt banging on the door Jaskier accidentally locked, and yesterday in its entirety was a bizarre nightmare. The second ends too soon and the truth comes rushing down; it’s all true; the king believes Jaskier is engaged to be married to the crazy witch.

Helplessly calculating escape plans in his mind, he stumbles to unlock the door and finds no less than three royal guards, one of them a captain.

“My lord Viscount,” the captain says with a bow, entering the room without Jaskier’s express invitation, “my King believes that the roads are unsafe to travel in this time of year and, in his endless mercy and wisdom, offers you and lady Yennefer the protection of his Royal guards. Your fiancee is expecting you in the carriage.”

There go the escape plans he didn’t really make. All he can do is loudly thank the King for his kindness and pick up his things under the captain’s unassuming, but watchful eyes. The guards take his bag and his lute from his hands and carry them like they’re valuable commodities — which, of course, they are.

The door of the extremely luxurious carriage (if safety were really a concern, travelling alone on foot would be much safer; this thing just screams ‘rob me’ with its entire appearance) opens to reveal the crazy witch, looking gorgeous as ever. 

“My love,” she greets him and motions subtly at the velvet bag on one of the seats; the spying trinkets must be in it, “I’m so happy to see you! The night was too long without you!”

He’d probably find some enjoyment in those staged dialogues, were it with someone — anyone — else, and were he not terrified to the point of falling over.

“Oh, my morning star, my night was restless without you, as well!” he exclaims and bows to kiss her hand. The ring is still on her finger, as it is on his. 

_‘Your uncle paid me a visit this morning,’_ he hears. The amount of poison she puts in the word ‘uncle’ could kill the entire castle if she spit it out. _‘He made it very clear that he will have full reports of his guards and servants, because, I quote, ‘I’m overjoyed to see my dear nephew finally find a suitable wife! The entire family has been waiting for this day for way too long.’ He also made it very clear that if one of us breaks the engagement, there will be consequences. Something about not wanting his nephew played for a fool, but not wanting him to act like a fool, either — hasn’t that ship sailed!’_

Jaskier swears to himself as he climbs into the carriage and drops on the seat. The captain hands him his lute and his bag and gets seated next to the coachmen while ordering his men to take the bench on the back. Well, at least, no one’s joining them inside. It’s a few hours short of a day’s trip, and Julian almost feels sorry for them for having to spend the entire day in the chilly winter air. Almost. He hasn’t forgotten they’re basically escorting him to his death.

_‘Can you maybe send them to sleep so that we could escape?’_ he thinks at her, without much hope. It’s still a little tricky, to make a thought loud enough and directed enough to make sure the witch hears it. 

She makes a face. _‘I would, if I could put the king to sleep, too. Permanently, rather.’_

He likes the thought.

_‘Aren’t you even a little, I don’t know, insulted, or at least inconvenienced with the fact that the king pretty much kidnapped us to force us to get married?’_ She’s taking this way too calmly.

_‘Insulted? Just a little, I can handle much worse. Inconvenienced — not really. I always knew I’d have an idiot for a husband, if I get to have a husband at all.’_

_‘Very funny.’_

Instead of answering, she smirks and asks aloud, in her sweetest voice: “Have you had breakfast, my love?”

“I was so anxious to see you, darling, I didn’t have the time.” He also didn’t get paid for yesterday; the king probably forgot all about it.

“I brought you some bread and fruit for the road!” She hands him another velvet bag. Inside, there are green apples, dried fruits, a large loaf of bread and some cheese and meat.

“That is so thoughtful of you, love of my life!” he says and digs in. 

_‘It’s really oddly thoughtful, thank you,’_ he thinks, munching on a surprisingly sweet apple.

_‘I don’t want you to start whining that you’re starving. Besides, Geralt says you make too much noise when you’re bored, so, if I’m to spend the day in your company, I need something to shut you up.’_

_‘I’ll have you know, a lot of people pay good money to hear me ‘make noise’, and Geralt secretly loves my singing!’_

_‘Very, very secretly,’_ she agrees. _‘Speaking of money,’_ she thinks in his head and then continues out loud, “there’s your payment for yesterday’s performance, in the bag with the King’s gifts. The King said he gave you thrice the agreed amount.”

“How generous of him!” He’d rather have half the promised coin, or none at all, but head in the opposite direction. And he’s beginning to hate the word ‘generous’. But well, at least the king didn’t forget.

“You never told me much about your family, darling,” she says when he finishes his third apple. “Don’t you think I should know something, if I’m about to meet them?”

“They’re—complicated,” he says, and ands silently, _‘a bunch of fucking nutballs, you’ll fit right in.”_

“In what way?”

“See, my mother died when my brother and I were just children, and Father never remarried,” _‘because he’s too much of an asshole for anyone to tolerate long enough to get engaged. My poor mother didn’t marry him by choice.’_ “He’s quick to judge and oftentimes inconsiderate with his words, but always very practical in actions.” _‘That’s true, and also probably why I’m still alive. He’s nothing if not practical.’_

“My brother was born just days before our mother’s death, and growing up never knowing her love made him— difficult, at times. Ill-mannered, at others.” _‘Fucking murderous and calculating and ten times the brute our father is on his worst day.’_ “He and my father barely get along, unless it’s to berate my life choices. Father threatens to disown me every time we meet, which is not often, and Bartholomew would give just about anything to see him do that.”

“I’m sure you’re exaggerating!” _‘Why hasn’t he, yet?’_

“Of course I am, beloved, I’m a poet!” _‘Oh, that’s pretty simple. My father knows that if he disowns me, he’ll be the only thing standing between Bartholomew and the County, which won’t do much for his life expectancy.’_

“That’s what I love about you, darling, but maybe you should be a little less harsh on your family!” _‘He could disown your brother, instead.’_ Evidently, families that are constantly at each other’s throats aren’t new to her.

“For you, I’ll endeavor to try!” _‘And leave himself with just one legitimate heir who swore to never set foot in the mansion again? Now, that would be a disaster!’_

_‘Why doesn’t your brother kill him, anyway, if you swore to never return?’_

_‘Because I also promised to return if I heard that Father didn’t die his own death. I guess he hasn’t found a way to ensure I never find out, or never return.’_ That moment it occurs to him that getting married — to a powerful sorceress, no less — might be just the way to stick it to Bartholomew. Julian’s wife would be his legal heir, and, thus, efficiently cut off Bartholomew from the County for good — or seemingly for good, until they find a way to get rid of this farce.

He has to think about it, and definitely doesn’t want the witch to know there’s a reason for him to want this, so he promptly diverts the topic. “What about your family, light of my days? You never talk about them, either!”

“There isn’t much to tell, my love. They’ve been gone for a long time.” She doesn’t say anything else, silently or aloud, and years of travelling with Geralt taught him when not to pry. Well, taught him a bit. Almost taught him. Taught him a little bit.

After a couple of hours of painful silence — Jaskier puts a lot of effort into biting his tongue in fear of saying something that might anger the peeping King, or worse — the insane witch, he gives up and reaches for his lute. Sitting quietly in the relative silence of a rapidly moving carriage is nothing short of torturous, so if the sorceress decides she hates his music more than the silence, he’ll take what’s coming. No outcome can be worse than having to stay quiet for hours on end. 

He plays a few nicer melodies, ones that go well without singing, and when she doesn’t complain, moves on to some of his sweet and less...ambiguous songs. Of course, most of his songs that aren’t suggestive are love songs, and all of his love songs are about Geralt, but even Geralt never caught up on that; he hopes Yennefer won’t, either; beats singing songs about monster fights — those are, too, about Geralt and, incidentally, also happen to be love songs, only less obviously so. 

Yennefer, surprisingly, doesn’t offer any comments or complaints. Jaskier is so used to his travelling companion complaining about singing that he’s unnerved, just a little. She might be planning revenge. She’s definitely regretting saving his life and his voice. He’ll pay for this, someday, for sure.

As he finishes another one of his sad love songs, he realizes that she’s dozing off. Huh. So much for his singing being too loud and annoying to concentrate, let alone sleep. He doesn’t even find it in himself to be insulted; he wasn’t trying to keep her awake, anyway.

They don’t stop for a meal; when it’s way past midday and Jaskier finds himself hungry, Yennefer is still sleeping, or pretending to be sleeping, so he puts away his lute and grabs the bag of snacks to fish out some dried fruits. After that the gentle rocking of the carriage and the sound of horseshoes on the frost-bitten ground lull him, too, to sleep.

He wakes up from a not-so-gentle push on his shoulder and a much more gentle, “Wake up, my love, we’re there!” He’s a little disoriented, and shakes his head to collect himself. As he does that, the carriage stops and shortly after, the door opens. The captain of their escort helps Yennefer get out, and Jaskier jumps out behind her as she’s thanking the guards. 

They’re at the doors of his father’s mansion. He hasn’t been here for...over a decade, probably; it’s not like he kept count. To his horror, the first thing he sees is what looks like each and every servant in the house, including the gardener’s apprentice and the stable boy, lined up in front of the mansion. His father, Bartholomew and a woman he never met — did Bartholomew finally decide to get married? The woman looks just terrified enough to be his poor wife — are standing in front of the row of servants, waiting to greet him. 

It’s Jaskier’s worst nightmare, right there. Well, second worst, in his worst one Geralt would be with him, mocking him all the way with his hidden smirks and quied ‘hmms’. Well, small blessings. 

“So nice of you to finally grace us with your presence, Julian,” his father says in lieu of a greeting. “I did not expect to see you so soon. What was it, fifteen years? Sixteen?”

“Father. It’s good to see you,” Jaskier says. Even with everything that’s gone wrong between them, he finds that he is, in fact, glad to see his father. The man looks much older than Jaskier remembers him, but no less energetic.

“I can’t say the same to you, Julian, in all honesty, unless you’re here to stay,” the Count replies. “I told you to stay away if you’re neglecting your duties. But never mind that. The King’s messenger was here this noon. You could have taken pity on your poor old father and informed me of your engagement before the king sent his man with the news.”

“We didn’t really plan to get married here, Father. I planned to uphold my promise to you and never step foot in this place again.”

“Ah, good, good. You’ll be out of my way after the proceedings, won’t you? Two more mouths to feed!” 

That reminds Jaskier why he never wanted to see his family again. “Speaking of, father.” He offers his hand to Yennefer and she readily takes it with a pleasant smile. “Father, Bartholomew. Please meet my beloved future wife, Yennefer of Vengerberg. My love, this is my father Count Lettenhove, and my brother, Bartholomew Adam Pankratz.” He can see the sour expression on his brother’s face throughout the introductions. Bartholomew hates it when Julian omits his title, and Julian, of course, never uses it. 

He’s enjoying his brother's annoyance a second too long, because he misses the moment when his father’s expression changes from disgusted to—almost enamoured. 

“Welcome, my dear,” Father says with warmth Julian has never, ever, in his entire life heard from the man. “I’m so glad my good-for-nothing son finally did something right in his life and brought you into our family.”

Julian opens his mouth, closes it, takes a breath — and it dawns on him. _‘Did you just bewitch my father?’_ he thinks at her. 

“I’m honored to be here, my lord Count,” Yennefer says with an appropriate bow. _‘Of course I did. I'm not about to suffer the same treatment he's giving you, thank you very much!’_

_‘Please don’t have an orgy with my father,’_ he begs as he watches the Count kiss her hand. 

_‘I’m not intending to. There’s more than one way to charm a man.’_ Julian sighs with relief. 

The woman next to Bartholomew is looking at his father with about the same expression Julian must have just had; evidently she’s never seen Father be nice to anyone, either. She could be a beautiful woman — is, in fact, a beautiful woman, with amazing blue eyes and, Julian can see, a very sweet smile somewhere down there. But she’s deadly thin and she looks terrified — not at the moment, just constantly terrified of everything there is. She’s wearing a rich dress and a beautiful fur coat, but the dress is just a little too big for her and a bit on the worn side, and she looks utterly uncomfortable in it, especially compared to Yennefer who’s wearing her beautiful face and her expensive clothing like a weapon she was born to weild.

“I’m Julian, my lady,” he says to her, since his father doesn’t look like he intends to introduce them. “May I know your lovely name?”

“Maia, my lord Viscount,” she says, explaining nothing.

“It’s good to meet you, Maia,” Yennefer intervenes. “How are you related to my dearest Julian?”

“She’s his bastard sister,” Father says. “And this is his bastard nephew, Alfred, even more worthless than Julian here.” 

_‘Even more worthless? Must be quite a feat,’_ Yennefer thinks at him.

Only then Julian notices a boy, about eight years old, hiding behind Maja’s back. Father pushes him to the front and the boy bows to Julian, looking outright horrified. Julian can’t imagine how hard it must have been for a little boy to live here. 

Or, in fact, he can.

He kneels in front of the boy and stretches out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Alfred,” he says. “I’m Alfred, too. Well, Julian Alfred, but still we share a name, right? I’m very glad to make your acquaintance.” The boy takes the offered hand and almost smiles. Almost.

“He’s not much of a conversationalist, out Alfie,” Bartholomew says. “Or, not really a conversationalist at all. He’s dumb, you see.”

The boy’s face falls, but Julian doesn’t let go of his tiny hand. “Dumber than you, Bartie, should be quite a feat,” he says with all the bite he can manage; he’s not even embarrassed for using Yennefer’s words. “An achievement in itself, even if true, which I doubt.” The boy’s almost-smile almost returns, which Julian counts as a win.

“He’s a mute,” Father says. “Never learned how to speak, probably never will. I have an heir that speaks too much and one that doesn’t speak at all. The two of you would almost make a decent man together, if only either of you had half a wit about you.” Julian doesn’t see a point in arguing, never has. “Jeremiah,” Father calls the majordomo, “do see my son and his wife-to-be are settled and make sure they’re fed. It’s getting late, we’ll talk tomorrow.”

With that, his father retreats to the mansion and Bartholomew, evidently not wishing to be in Juliuan’s company any more than their father does, follows him without a word. Julian is left with Yennefer, Maia, Alfred and the endless row of servants. Most of them he never met.

“Welcome home, little master,” he hears a shaking voice. Ooh, this is one welcome voice he thought he’d never hear again. 

“Nanny!” he yells. He picks up the little old woman in his arms and spins her around as she yelps. “I never thought I’d see you again!” Father let her go when Bartholomew turned twelve, and, no matter how Julian begged, refused to even tell them where she lived. Julian looked for her back then, but in vain. He would have believed her dead had he been willing to even consider she might be.

“Put me down, you insolent young man,” she says, but her voice is as warm as he remembers. He does put her down, but hugs her even tighter. 

“How are you here, nanny?” he asks into her grey hair.

“Your father asked me to look after master Alfred here.” She pushes him away, just a little. “Let me look at you, dear boy. I don’t think you’ve changed a bit!”

“Neither have you, nanny!” That’s a lie. He remembers her a young woman, almost. Now she’s ancient.

“You, flatterer, you,” she says, gently slapping his arm with the back of her hand. 

They pull apart, and the servants take that as a permission to surround them. Jeremiah welcomes him ‘home’ and even sounds sincere when he says he’s glad to see him, and the cook — she looks much older, too — promises to cook all his favourite meals, and then demands that he gives her a list of Yennefer’s favourites. One of the housegirls is Amika, the granddaughter of his mother’s old maid; last time Julian saw the girl she was five. They’re nice people, his father’s servants; surprisingly so, knowing his father’s temper. The Count has always been more than generous with his people, that’s his one redeeming quality. 

He suddenly thinks that he actually missed these people, without even knowing it. Maria’s cooking, and nanny’s singing, and Amika’s laughter. He didn’t even remember them most of the time, in all his many years on the road, but he did miss them, somewhere deep inside. 

“It’s late, master Alfred,” Nanny says. “Let’s put you to bed, shall we?” She takes the boy’s hand, and Julian is, for a second, jealous. They bid their goodnights (Nanny out loud, and Alfred with a short bow) and leave, followed closely by Maia, who hasn’t uttered a word since her brief greeting.

“Your rooms are ready, as well, my lord,” Jeremiah says. “Would you like your supper served in your rooms or in the dining room?”

“In Julian’s room, please,” Yennefer replies for him. “We’re not quite ready to be parted, are we, my love?”

The younger maids sigh dreamily and Jeremiah makes a show of shooing them to their workplaces and then leads Julian and Yennefer to Julian’s room. 

“The room across the hall has been prepared for you, lady Yennefer, it's yours until the wedding. I hope you’ll find it comfortable.” 

“I have no doubt that I shall,” Yennefer replies. “Please have my things brought there. Thank you, Jeremiah.”

The majordomo gives them a short bow and leaves, closing the door behind him.

“I can see why you’re so enamoured with Geralt, now,” Yennefer says, aloud. “Compared to your family he’s the embodiment of love and compassion.”

Julian shrugs. He never thought of it that way.

“Relax, the king’s gifts are still in the carriage. We can speak freely, for now.”

He can’t find much to say.

“Your sister seems nice,” she offers. 

“As in, doesn’t start with insults? That’s probably because it’s the first time we see each other. I’m sure, tomorrow she’ll be calling me an idiot like the rest of them.”

Yennefer shakes her head. “I don’t think she will be.”

“I didn’t even know she existed, can you believe that?”

“That’s often the case with bastards.”

He hums. At least, Father seems to be taking care of her, for his definition of ‘taking care’. Neither she nor her son seem to be thriving under the Count’s wing. 

“I’m wondering how long my father’s daughter and grandson will survive, with my brother around.”

“Do you seriously believe him to be a murderer?”

Julian nods. “We grew up together, you know. I saw him do quite a few horrible things: killing frogs just for the sake of it, tearing the wings off living butterflies. He strangled our mother’s old dog when he found it was stealing his sweets; he was nine then. When he was fifteen, I came to visit from Oxenfurt and we heard rumors that the son of one of our house girls was, in fact, Father’s bastard. The kid fell down the stairs two days later and broke his neck. An accident, you see.” 

“I see.” 

“So— well, watch your back, will you?”

“Why, Julian, are you worried about me?”

He is. He doesn’t know why, but the notion of his brother hurting the crazy witch bothers him. He’s not about to admit it. “Not in the slightest. But the king might overreact if you’re found dead in my father’s house.”

“Don’t worry, bard, your brother is very certainly not a match for me.” She’s right, of course. 

There’s a gentle knock on the door, and a pair of maids come in with a tray full of delicious smelling food. The meatloaf is, indeed, a favourite from his long-forgotten childhood; he’s both surprised and touched that the cook remembered exactly the way he likes it. After an entire day on the road with only bread and fruit for snacks he’s positively famished, and that pretty much puts the end to this entirely too grim discussion. 

He walks Yennefer to her room soon after supper and retires to bed, as well. It’s not that late, really, and he isn’t at all tired, but the alternative is either talking to the witch the entire evening or worse, going to find his father. He isn’t looking forward to either, so he goes to bed, instead, and spends a few hours composing a lullaby, one that would sound like one of his nanny’s, but with a bit of a modern twist. He doubts Nanny will sing it, but it might amuse her, all the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilery details for some tags
> 
> This is endgame OT3, but much heavier on Jaskier/Yennefer than anything else. Geralt isn't coming in for a while, and isn't a part of the relationship for... quite a bit longer.
> 
> The dubcon and voyeurism tags are for Jaskier and Yennefer being forced to consummate their marriage while probably observed through magical means. There's no explicit sex and whether or not they are actually observed is never confirmed.
> 
> Please tell me if you think I missed a tag. Also, this fic is unbetaed, so please feel free to point at mistakes, I'd really appreciate that!


End file.
